Hey Dad,

Had another epic night safeguarding Pawsburgh from the feline menace! Led the K9 brigade into battle, protected our treats, and still made it back for morning cuddles. You’d be proud! Spreadsheets by day, tail-wagging heroism by twilight. 🐾

Your son,
Teddy Bear

Listen to the story here

When the sun dips below the horizon and the world of men falls quiet, that’s my cue. My human slumbers, mumbling something about spreadsheets, but I, mighty Hercules, burst forth from the confines of the mundane to defend the hallowed grounds of Pawsburgh.

I gallop through the ethereal entrance of Quartz Qimmiq Quarter, muscles coiling beneath my fur. My compatriots bark my arrival—Margaux with her arresting howl, Tank with his bassy rumble. Even Beatzie consents a wicked grin that could curdle fresh milk.

The Snooty Snout Boutique beckons, a trove of gleaming collars and capes cast for heroes. A cape? Perhaps. I shrug off the thought; my strength lies not in adornments, but in heart and heft. Tonight, I hear the whispers of trouble on the zephyr, sizzling like steak on the hot grill at Barking BBQ.

“My friends,” I declare, “duty calls!” They rally, these dauntless hounds of justice, licking chops and tightening collars forged in the very flames of canine camaraderie.

Samoyed Square is a stage set for battle, the place where the misdeeds of unruly feline marauders meet their match. They, with their malevolent plots and scratchy tongues, seek to upturn our bastion of harmony. Not on my watch. Not on our watch.

Lulu, with her gossamer fur shimmering under moonlight, reports the felines’ latest ruse—tampering with The Canine Cafe’s famous steak pies. “Monstrous,” I huff, half-filled with rage, half with grief for the offense against my gastronomic affections.

The charge led by yours truly, jaws clamped in an O of determination, ears flat as we soar through Opal Pomeranian Park. Names are for birth certificates and gravestones; in the hustle, we are streaks of valor. Bark and brawn meld, a symphony only the brave dare compose.

“This ends here,” I bark to my furry league, “No paw shall tremble, no snout shall err!”

Understand, I’m no diplomat. When the claws come out, so do the big guns. And yours truly? I’m the cannon they didn’t account for. I growl, a sound torn from the gut of the earth, promising upheaval, promising—they better reckon with it—retribution.

Margaux leaps, an inky comet against studded sky. Boss’s tactical distraction, a masterclass in the finesse of stealth and coordination. Coco winks as she snares a whiskered infiltrator with a twirl that makes Astaire look like he’s got four left feet.

Then the crunch. Their reinforcements—a boggling conjuring trick only cats could pull. Across the din of battle, whispers of Rottweiler’s Ribs’ hickory infuse the air. The scent turncoats my thoughts—but only for a fleeting second.

“Tank!” I call. And with the force of a tempest, he crashes into the tide, the siblings of chaos recoiling, hissing.

Triumph begets silence, begets the lapping of water and soothing murmurs. We emerge, the ragged, the panting, the glorious. This night will be etched into the annals of Pawsburgh, narrated through the generations, tales of how Hercules and company shielded their sanctuary from vile claws.

Victory tastes sweet—like finest tilapia—and soon the jollity of the Paw-tisserie chases away any remaining specter of discord. We consume pastries and steak bites with jowls stuffed like treasure chests. Stars bless us from afar, and I crack an eye at Beatzie, who shares a nod. No words necessary; the night still thrums with our deeds.

As the veil of twilight pinks with dawn, I return, secret as a whisper, slipping into the comforts of a bed that seems too small for legends but fits just one weary bulldog perfectly. Sunbeam secured, I dream—a sentinel in waiting—heart beating with the steady rhythm of canine peace.

My human will wake to tales spilling from wagging tongues, oblivious to the battles waged, the legend of Hercules the Bulldog who, when all seems lost, whispers to the villains of the night: “Not in my town, not in Pawsburgh.”

The End.